[ad_1]
It was a moment, a week after our daughter was born, that the three of us were lying in bed. This was the first. We did it in the hospital, piled on twin beds, pushed together, the smallest thing on our chest, the disc, but those few days were foggy. Was it real? Did I give birth? Was I alive? Was he human? Was I asleep or awake? When an Austrian nurse told us (we lived in Vienna), mother and father I was looking for my parents.
So when we got home at night, or maybe soon, we found ourselves alone in our bed, where my husband and I had always been, but now that she was in the middle, even if it was ideal. -nose metaphor. We didn’t know what to do with him. I vaguely thought he was going to sleep in my next bedroom, or maybe between us, but now it didn’t seem so easy decide where to put it. He seemed to be staying where he was sleeping, so he was among us, huddled tightly, not forgetting, asleep for a moment. We were both scared to crush him. I looked at my husband, who was almost as stunned as I was, even though he was not physically decimated. In a voice of real despair, I whispered: Do you think we should wait to be him?
A seven-day-old woman after childbirth is not well, and perhaps my husband acknowledged this and simply said: He doesn’t have to think about it now, knowing, of course, that we could not return to the place where we had recovered, or the moment we decided to try his side, nor to the day we saw the two lines of the stick, which felt like eight lives ago. But like I said, I wasn’t completely healthy and no longer asleep and I was pumped full of hormones and milk and blood and soon the bull scar would get infected and they would put me on two types of antibiotics, and something inside me. think Well, maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I can go back in time and stop this whole process. It can disappear.
We were only married for a year, the two of us together. Didn’t we want more time together? Who does all this so fast? What did we think?
He didn’t care then. The deed was done. Proof of flesh and bone and our DNA, and my open belly and hardened breasts. When he shouted in the dark side of the night, in a place I had never been before, it was my problem. But still, I tried to go back 10 months, we told each other a week ago, I’m ready. I thought You can try and delete everything.
My point is that this was the baby I wanted. So I want to. I squared and timed and took the temperature and waited and fucked up there. I was 34 when I looked at the positive stick. We sobbed happily and calmly and excitedly. And yet. It was there, ours, forever “God, what a dreadful word I never understood!” – and I was overwhelmed with ambivalence and fear.
No one lasted that long, thankfully for me. Soon, strangely enough, I was just his mother, and we moved on, adapting to this new à trois life. It wasn’t easy, but I grew up loving him and loving his presence in our lives. My point is, of course, that giving birth to a desired baby is also a break-in; an earthquake, full of all possible feelings, including remorse and uncertainty and shame and panic.
This moment came to me recently when it was debated by the Supreme Court Mississippi abortion law; in fact, women’s rights to own our bodies and reproductive opportunities are once again in the hands of six judges who can’t even see the realities of living with a reproductive system. I thought about lying in that bed with this seven-day-old baby and this man I loved more than anything, and not really having it. Being forced to be. Not wanting to be with Dad. That the father would not want it. To be a teenager. Birth control failure. Being too sick, physically or mentally, to take care of him. Either because I was forced to give it up because I knew I couldn’t supply it, or because I just wanted to, or because I wasn’t able to abort a pregnancy because I knew what I wanted and needed. How every time our reproductive rights — and therefore our lives — are thrown away like a worn-out sack, women line up and our histories and hearts flow, begging for understanding; trying, one by one, angrily and angrily, trying to show how damn our patriarchal system and the men (and sometimes women!) who run it are. sorry like being really a woman.
No one, and not Brett Kavanaugh or Amy Coney Barrett, came to raise our daughter or negotiate childcare costs or responsibilities or pay for back problems caused by pregnancy or to negotiate the division of labor in my home. (They weren’t there for me to function in the first 20 weeks of pregnancy or when I was overweight or pregnant.) Yes, there are occasional grandparents or babysitters or extracurricular programs. And he stayed for three years Money from the Austrian government.
But does that matter?
What does it take for my body to really be mine? What proof do they need?
How many ways can you tell: I am also a human being.
I am. I am. I am.
Abigail Rasminsky He is a writer, editor and teacher living in Los Angeles. He teaches creative writing at the Keck School of Medicine at USC and writes a weekly newsletter. People + Bodies. He also wrote for the Cup of Jo marriage, motherhood and neighbors.
You might also like to read: “I Didn’t Have an Abortion”(NYTimes) and“Why I give abortions”(Boston Review). If you can, consider joining us at Planned Parenthood, ACLU or local abortion funds. According to a reader of Kate, “Local abortion funds and clinics are scarce and offer medical fees, practical / emotional support, transportation, lodging, etc. to people who are seeking direct abortion care and could not afford it. Most abortion restrictions it is an immediate way to help those affected. ” Thank you. xo
PS About sexual harassment, and Five ways to teach children about consent.
(Photo: Lucas Ottone / Stocksy.)
[ad_2]
Source link
